“Please forgive me, Jennifer,” he said softly, as he placed Whitehouse’s envelope to one side, his eyes staring at it as though it represented his disrespect for the consecration of Jennifer’s final resting place.
He stared at the second envelope held in his trembling fingers, frightened and aware of the dryness in his mouth. He cautiously opened the envelope, revealing several sheets of yellowed paper that emitted a musty smell as they were unfolded. He sat in stunned silence as his alert eyes darted from one sheet to another, picking out numerous bombshells that exploded behind his pained expression: a letter from Dr Majid Eldabe written thirty years ago; mention of the names of his father Freddie, his brother Baz, and his wife Jennifer. But the biggest shock was recognising his mother’s untidy spidery handwriting.
As his mouth dried out even more and the colour drained from his face, Jasper continued to read. The only movement discernible was the rhythmic tremble of the paper in his grasp and the return of a nagging tic around his left eye.
Dr Majid Omar Eldabe MB (Cairo) FRCP (London) PhD
(Camb)
Consultant Neurologist
St Thomas’ Hospital
Westminster Bridge Road
London
SE1 7EH
Mr Freddie Candle
17 Scratham Close
Stepney
8 July 1979
Dear Mr Candle,
This letter serves to confirm in writing the details of our last meeting in Neurology Out Patients at St Thomas’ Hospital.
You were referred to me with intermittent jerky movements of your arms and legs, trembling in your hands and contractions and tics of your facial muscles. You told me that your father had been similarly affected in his later life and you recalled being told that he ‘had gone mad’.
I believe the phrase you said that your mother used was ‘madness runs in your family’ and that several of your uncles and cousins had suffered from similar conditions.
On enquiry, you stated that your abnormal movements had been noticeable for at least a year and were getting steadily worse. That would time their onset with approximately your forty third birthday.
When I examined you I was able to confirm significant choreo-athetoid movement disorders, ataxia, dysphasia and also the beginnings of early dementia. The CT scan we performed last month showed atrophy (degeneration) in certain areas of your brain.
Together all of this information unfortunately adds up convincingly to a diagnosis of Huntingtons disease, which almost certainly runs in your family. There is as yet no absolutely infallible test for Huntingtons disease, but I am very confident that this is the diagnosis in your case.
Huntingtons disease is in most people an inherited condition that is progressive and relentless. Unfortunately there is as yet no cure and the disease is inevitably fatal within ten to twenty years, by which time you will be dependent on full time nursing care.
One very important matter to consider and discuss is genetic counselling, by which I mean family planning. There is a 50% chance that each of your children will inherit Huntingtons disease from you. If you have not had children yet then I would urge you to enter into formal genetic counselling, as the risks of transmitting this are significant.
As ever, I am available to discuss any matter that you may wish to raise. I have enclosed literature on Huntingtons disease: what to expect, where to find help, how to join Huntingtons support groups, etc.
I am very sorry to have to be the bearer of such devastating news.
At the end of next month I will be leaving St Thomas’ Hospital and setting up full time consulting rooms at 67 Harley Street. I will be more than happy to continue seeing you there, or if you prefer I can refer you to one of my esteemed colleagues here at St Thomas’.
Yours sincerely,
MO Eldabe
Jasper’s heart was racing and his hands were trembling more than they had for several days, making the paper flutter in his grasp. He tried to lick his lips but they were as dry as leather. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the abdomen. On his bedside table the iPhone registered an incoming message, but Jasper either did not hear it or totally ignored it. Apprehensively, he turned to the next letter, handwritten in his mother’s distinctively blotchy and untidy scrawl and began to read. He could taste his own nausea and his eyes were burning from a sustained lack of blinking.
My dearest Jennifer,
I have regarded you more as a daughter than a daughter-in-law and you in turn have always been very kind to me. This doesn’t make it any easier for me to say what I have to and I cannot apologise enough for being such a coward. I am ashamed that I never had the courage as a mother to face Jasper and be honest with him.
Jasper was never that close to his father and I felt that when he died Jasper held against me the fact that I never stood up for him more at home. Jasper’s father jumped off Westminster Bridge and drowned himself in The Thames on the way home from work one day in 1979. It was a complete shock to everyone who knew him, including Jasper and his brother Baz.
Where I failed was in not telling them why their father could no longer live with himself. I had been a peace monger and a coward in my marriage; I remained so as a widow and as a mother.
Freddie, Jasper’s father, told me one night that ‘madness ran in his side of the family’ and that, in addition to his father, several of his aunts and uncles had also been afflicted before they died. We knew nothing of the nature of this terrible disease and Freddie thought, by the time he reached mid adult life, that he might have cheated it and was in the clear. Soon after he began to develop peculiar jerky movements in his arms and legs, even his hands and his face twitched constantly near the end.
He had particularly vivid memories of his Uncle Arden, who had been a father figure to him during the war. Arden apparently ended up being restrained, incontinent, unable to communicate and care for himself. Freddie was terrified of ending up like this.
He eventually took medical advice and was referred to a neurologist at St Thomas’ Hospital. They were very interested in the family tree and the history of who had been affected in the past. Though they did a brain scan, I recall that there were no specific tests that they undertook on him to reach a diagnosis in those days. However, they were pretty confident that he had Huntingtons disease, which they said he had inherited from his father. I have enclosed the letter from the neurologist that I found amongst his possessions after he died. Freddie never said a word to me about any of this.
Knowing that he was facing a dreadful deterioration in independence, bodily function and dignity, I don’t think Freddie could face life anymore and ended it within a week of the diagnosis. What he failed to deal with, however, was the issue of his own two children and what might happen to them. That impossibly difficult task he left to me and, unfortunately, I shrank from the responsibility, until now.
Jasper was only eighteen and his brother Baz twenty three when their father died. Huntingtons usually only strikes people in their forties or fifties apparently, so I gambled that it would be many years before they would be affected, if they were affected at all, as there was always the possibility that they might not have inherited the disease from Freddie. I never thought for a moment about grandchildren.
Baz was a qualified doctor and I think he connected the dots a little sooner once his symptoms began to develop. He seemed prepared for it and had tests done immediately. By that time genetic testing was already available and they confirmed that he had Huntingtons disease.
He asked me one day if I had known all along that his father had been diagnosed with Huntingtons and all I could do was cry, covering my shameful failure in tears. I realised that my nightmare was becoming a reality. He stormed out and died at Lambeth Underground station in the rush hour. The newspapers said the crowd of passengers was exceptional that evening, raising the question of whether it surged and pushed him over the edge into the path of the oncoming train. But I knew instantly what had happened and I b
egan to fear that I might lose Jasper, my last remaining son, in a similarly tragic fashion. Two suicides in one family was more than enough for any mother to have to deal with. I was determined to prevent this happening to Jasper as well.
It was then that you confided in me about wanting to start a family and I realised my time to act was running out. Though I could not bring myself to tell Jasper about the terrible fate that quite possibly awaited him, I knew that an even greater tragedy and injustice would be to bring another generation into this world carrying that terrible gene.
So, my darling Jennifer, contrary to the natural and strong mothering urges that now drive you to raise your own children, I must ask you to deny yourself the most precious gift that a mother can give to this world – children. This is especially vital if you begin to notice any strange symptoms in Jasper, the signs of early onset Huntingtons disease. As these may be delayed, you cannot necessarily take normality for granted and the safest course of action is undoubtedly not to have any children with Jasper.
Both his father and Baz started with trembling and jerking of their limbs, strange facial tics, mood swings, loss of focus and concentration, even forgetfulness.
Doctors can now do genetic tests to diagnose the condition and Jasper may, of course, not even have it. But if he has begun to develop any of these signs, then it is probably too late.
If there is even the slightest possibility that Jasper may have Huntingtons, you must, please, my dear Jennifer, not fall pregnant and potentiate this curse into another generation of Candles.
It’s a lot to ask I know, especially in such a cowardly fashion, but I beg you to heed my words. Doctors cannot treat this disease, but you can stop it from developing further in our family.
I am so sorry that I wasn’t a stronger person and able to deal with this horrendous family tragedy better. You will always be in my thoughts, Jennifer. I am forever in debt to you for assuming this great burden.
Thank you.
Love
Evie Candle
SIXTY EIGHT
It was Lazlo who discovered that Jasper had absconded from hospital and was missing. Walking into Jasper’s room with his swaggering waddle, he found the bed sheets peeled back, partially covering a small pile of yellowed papers.
Following a gentle knock at the door, Dr Montgolfier walked in and seemed surprised to find Lazlo standing in the room. He frowned and rubbed his fuzzy beard with one hand, half turning as if to check that he had entered the correct room.
“I’m looking for Jasper Candle,” Montgolfier said uncertainly, folding his arms and revealing brown leather elbow patches on his green tweed jacket.
“So am I,” Lazlo said, his eyes surveying Montgolfier from head to foot. They came to rest on the array of pens in the breast pocket of the country gentleman’s jacket.
“Are you his doctor?”
Montgolfier extended his hand.
“Dr Montgolfier. Where is Mr Candle?”
Lazlo’s eyes wandered down to the floor beside the bed where a discarded set of crumpled hospital pyjamas lay in a heap. The iPhone beside the bed was gone, the small wardrobe in the corner open with empty hangers visible on the rail.
“I think he’s done a runner, Doc.”
Concern creased Montgolfier’s face and he again folded his arms.
“Why on earth would he do that?”
Lazlo’s gaze settled on the partially hidden yellowed papers beneath the bedding. He surreptitiously drew the sheets across to obscure the letters.
“I’m a little worried about Mr Candle, Doc. He’s not been himself lately.”
“I beg your pardon, I didn’t catch your name…” Montgolfier said, leaning forward slightly.
“Lazlo, I work for Mr Candle.”
Montgolfier nodded and thoughtfully stroked his beard.
“I agree with you, I am concerned about where he might be and what state of mind he may be in. Any idea where he could have gone, Mr Lazlo?”
Lazlo shrugged, his eyes furtively flicking to the hidden letters.
“Doctor Montgolfier, a call for you,” said a nurse, popping her head around the door.
Montgolfier excused himself and followed the nurse. Lazlo quickly snatched the letters and stuffed them inside his leather jacket, before hastily leaving the room.
He could not explain what investigative instinct had driven him to look on Prebends Bridge, especially as his very first thought had been that he would find Jasper in The Swan and Three Cygnets, halfway through a bottle of whisky. Perhaps it was the content of the letters on Jasper’s bed that had sparked a subconscious connection in his brain as he read through them quickly.
“Jesus!” Lazlo muttered, shaking his head, his brow creased and his astonished eyes darting from one letter to the next.
Lazlo stepped off the cobbles on North Bailey and stopped beneath the stone gateway on the cathedral side of the river bank, observing Jasper carefully before approaching. Lazlo had been rushing about and the welcome pause gave him opportunity to catch his breath as he studied his quarry.
Jasper was leaning against the stone parapet, his breath visible in short rapid plumes of vapour around his face as he stared down into the icy December waters.
“Guv?” Lazlo said as he gradually drew closer.
A ghostly mist clung to the water, gathering in thicker clouds in some places. A few people walked the riverbank pathways, but the bridge was deserted.
“You all right, guv?”
Jasper sighed but did not turn to acknowledge Lazlo. He would never know that just weeks earlier Jennifer had stood, in a similarly forlorn state of mind, staring into the Serpentine in Hyde Park, mesmerised by the allure of the tranquil waters.
“You must be cold, guv,” Lazlo said, removing his brown leather jacket and draping it around Jasper’s shoulders. Jasper was wearing only a creased white shirt beneath peacock blue braces that had become twisted as they were hurriedly attached to his pin stripe trousers.
The square white dressing covering his intravenous site was visible over his left wrist.
“Everyone’s been so worried about you, guv. Why did you leave the hospital?”
Lazlo glanced at Jasper’s trembling fingers, tinged blue from the cold. The iPhone Jasper held rolled rhythmically between his thumb and index fingers.
“I don’t know what to do, Lazlo,” Jasper said softly.
“What’s happened, guv?”
Lazlo’s face was creased with concern as he eased forward slowly and placed his elbows on the parapet beside Jasper, making sure he did not crowd him.
“All my life I have helped people through their tragedies by finding a guilty party to blame.”
Lazlo nodded, the large pewter ear ring bouncing against his cheek.
“You’ve helped many people, guv.”
Jasper looked upwards at the leaden sky, the tics around his left eye visible but not as corrupting as they had been. Lazlo noticed that even Jasper’s arms seemed to be writhing less.
“In my experience there is always somebody to blame, even if it means having to dig a little deeper. You know all this, Lazlo, how long have we worked together?”
“I know, guv.”
A silence descended from the chilly, damp air and hung between the two men.
“I’ve always believed that closure is achieved through the process of understanding cause, which usually means blaming someone.”
“That’s what we do, guv.” Lazlo nodded.
“But now I am the one needing closure and it doesn’t look that simple from where I’m standing.”
Lazlo rubbed his great hand across his rough chin several times.
“I don’t know how to help myself, Lazlo. I’m lost. Searching through my family’s well kept secrets, I cannot easily find anyone to blame for this… this… bottomless pit of a tragedy.”
Lazlo wondered how long he could feasibly continue pretending that he had not read Jasper’s private letters. He maintained a discrete sile
nce and listened.
“I cannot blame my father for inheriting this awful disease and passing it on to all of us. I can no longer blame Jennifer, God rest her poor soul, for finding herself caught in an impossible situation with no apparent escape. It was not of her making.”
Lazlo turned his head slightly to watch a group of school children running across the bridge ahead of their parents as they made their way home at the end of the school day.
“If only Mrs Candle had been able to tell you what was on her mind, guv.”
Jasper glanced at Lazlo and frowned ever so slightly.
“Is it my fault, Lazlo? Was I unapproachable, unavailable? Is that why she…?”
Lazlo shrugged, feeling that perhaps he had over reached himself.
“I had to read the letters, guv, I found them on your bed and I needed to know what had happened and where to look for you.” He paused, looking like a remorseful schoolboy. “I’m sorry.”
This revelation seemed to act as a catalyst to Jasper, whose shoulders began to shudder beneath Lazlo’s giant leather jacket.
“Every chicken pluckin’ member of my family has deceived me. I initially thought it was just Jennifer, but there was also Charlotte, my father, cheese and rice Lazlo, even my own mother!” Jasper’s voice rose in intensity as he spoke.
Lazlo’s mind raced as he tried to figure out how to handle this situation. He was not trained in negotiation or crisis management and he was worried that one wrong move could ignite Jasper’s volatile vulnerability.
“It’s freezing out here, guv, shouldn’t we go inside?”
Jasper turned to face Lazlo, revealing his bloodshot and moist eyes, the tics pulling at his eyelids.
“My mother, Lazlo, cheese and rice, my own mother knew about this… this curse… for thirty years she knew… and didn’t even tell me…”
Jasper lowered his head and stared down at the mist swirling gently across the calm waters, disturbed only by the occasional swoop of a hungry bird seeking food.
The Secret Anatomy of Candles Page 23